


Pyramid of Skulls

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:59:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, he would build a monument</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyramid of Skulls

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[**nolivingman**](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/) and [](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/)**black_hound** are completely to blame for this. A semi-sort-of sequel to "Cast On", but not really. AU, obvs.
> 
> Originally posted 2-26-09

He took great pains to make sure the news never left France. So much happened so quickly and though his own entanglements preyed heavily on his mind, he insured that no word reached Maria’s ears. When the war was ended, his own death so nearly come, he took his time returning to England, knowing that, whatever his future, the purpose he had served and so suited was down gone. Soldiers and sailors without a war are merely more mouths to feed.

Still, England held his home, his wife and his child, so he returned, a hero’s welcome he did not deserve. He searches the docks for her; too keenly aware of the irony that he had never done so when she was his own wife. Portsmouth is cramped and crowded, bleak and grey and no one waits for him.

He sends word to Barbara, knowing without question that she will understand his duty. For his own failings, he could not face her, but for this he must. He would not be able to face himself otherwise, and unwavering loyalty deserves no less.

The small house in Sheerness is different from the last time he visited. Maria had been gone and so Bush had invited him home, sipping warm brandy in the cool air of early spring. He had glanced around, unable to control the curiosity of a life that had been his, become someone else’s. The touches of Maria that he remembers – her bag of knitting, her old school texts, her leather-bound journal on a chair by the fire – seemed both right and out of place, and he’d stared at the quilt that covered the bed as Bush had prepared their drinks.

Now there are flowers standing out bright against the grey skies, against the stormy blue wash of paint. Curtains hang in the window and he can smell the rich scent of chops in the air. Bush’s money came here, what did not go to his dependent sisters, and clearly the lessons learned in a lifetime of eking out an existence hold Maria in good stead. He refuses to allow himself to think that, with Napoleon no longer, the country has little enough use for Captains, much less for captains’ wives.

He stops at the head of the path, staring down at the water below, at the ships that will be stranded, their purpose gone with the tide of war. He hears the soft music of humming and moves closer to the entrance. He is no fan of music, but he thinks he recognizes the song. A lullaby if he remembers correctly, a fantastical foolish tale told to children as they drifted off to sleep. Perhaps Richard Arthur would know the words, perhaps it was the last sound little Horatio and Maria had heard.

Knocking at the door silences the music and he braces himself. He has faced death and defeat, dictators and kings, and his fears have always come from the possibility of failure. There is no possibility here. He has failed too clearly before with the loss of the Sutherland and with Maria herself and now this, perhaps his greatest failure of all. He’s heard often from others of the fear of opening a door, of seeing a letter from the Admiralty – a call to a ship, back to war, or worse for those left behind with the realization that no one is returning home.

The war is over now. Surely the fear is gone. He sees that in Maria’s face when she opens the door. Her smile speaks of the hope of return, the anticipation of the future they’ve all been so cautious to avoid hoping for, lest it never come.

“Oh! Commodore Hornblower!” She bows her head and curtseys, and he can’t help think it strange. He has bedded her, loved her after his fashion, and yet she treats him like a stranger.

“Maria.” He clears his throat at the ill-advised familiarity. “Mrs. Bush.”

“I had heard you arrived back in England.” She steps back away from the door. “Let me make you something. I believe William has a small supply of coffee for just such an occasion.” She ignores his attempt at protest, hurrying to the kitchen. His planned journey to the sitting room is halted as she turns, the painfully familiar swell of her body like a sword to his heart.

“You’re with child.”

She blushes and ducks her head, turning her attention to his coffee. The sharp stab of jealousy, an emotion he has no claim to, strikes him. His message weighs heavier still as he moves to the window to avoid the sight of her. Sheerness will die in the absence of war, the docks bereft and ignored, forgotten.

“When is the child due?”

“Soon. Weeks. A month at most.”

He looks around the small house. She has kept herself busy knitting blankets and more for the baby. “Barbara says you sent a blanket along for Richard Arthur.”

“I hope I did not overstep myself.” There is something in her voice that he works hard not to hear, a pain of separation like he feels for the two children gone in the ground. He has dealt her far too many losses in their short life together.

“Of course not. Though it was entirely unnecessary.”

“No doubt you and Lady Hornblower have little need of a token from me.” She hands him his coffee and he takes it, easing his fingers from the soft blanket draped over a shallow bassinet.

“He is dead, Maria.”

She stills then a hard, fierce shudder runs through her like a storm at sea. She grips the back of a chair then sinks into it. “No.” He watches her as she protests, knowing that is a token as well. The truth is undeniable in her eyes. “No.”

Bad enough that a woman should live through rumors of her husband’s death, worse still to have that self-same man bypass rumors and bring truth. “He was brave. To the last.”

“No.” Her voice is more forceful, shake though it does. “Please. Please Commodore Hornblower.”

“Maria.”

“Don’t do this. Please.” She closes her eyes, bowing her head. “Please, Horatio. Don’t.”

“He died bravely.” The sound of his name on her lips is another wound he sustains. He takes a step toward her, careful not to touch her. “He died as he would have wished. In battle. Doing his duty.”

“He did not.” Maria’s hand goes to her stomach, caressing the swell. “He died the way you tell yourself he wished. Doing his duty.” Her voice is flat, no inflection of pain or bitterness. “Serving the kind. No doubt you believe that, like you, he would prefer death over returning home to me.”

He stands silent as emotion breaks through her resolve, daring him to press the issue, to deny her words. Her eyes flash with anger, and he wonders how he missed this in her for so long. “I never wished for death, Maria.”

“And yet you assume William would rather die for his duty than here with me?” A flush suffuses her cheeks and Hornblower finds he cannot help but stare. “Where is he? Was he buried at sea? Did you leave his body to rot in France? Did you bring him home to me?”

“He…” Hornblower pauses, searching for wards. Maria’s eyes are unforgiving, her gaze intent. “He died at Caudebec. He was in the midst of a mission and everything…there was nothing left.”

Her body jerks and she stumbles from the chair to the window, staring out at the bleak skies. “When.”

“Before Bonaparte’s capture.”

“Before…you have…” She grips the sill to steady herself, one hand falling again to her stomach. “Bar-Lady Barbara has seen you. H-has written to me. How could you?” She turns, tears streaming over her cheeks, drying in their tracks against her red, flushed skin. “How _dare_ you?”

“I did not want you to hear it from a stranger, from…I did not want you to be alone.”

“How am I to be otherwise, Commodore?” She straightens, her tears gone in the face of fury and hurt. “My husband is dead, and I remain assured that your intentions and obligations toward me are served and dispensed with when you walk through that door to your home and your wife. Your wishes, Commodore, have nothing to do with what is best for me or for what William wished. They are solely for your own benefit. Tell me, Horatio-” His name falls from her tongue like a curse. “I have lost my children, my marriage and now my husband to you. Will you not take this baby? Is there nothing else you wish to rip from life? You are your own dictator, conquering me in battle that I have no chance of winning, no defense.”

“I would gladly trade my life for his.”

“So easy to make promises that cannot be filled.” The words tremble, though he cannot tell if it is from sorrow or anger. He closes the distance between them, touching her shoulder lightly. She shakes her head, warning him off.

He ignores her, bowing his head close to hers. “Hate me, if you must, but it _is_ true. He was a far better man that I, and I would change this if I could. All I can offer you is that he is remembered. It is a solemn mark on any map.” His hand moves higher, thumb against her throat and fingers curving around the back of her neck. “I will not forget him. Or you.”

Kissing her is instinct and habit. The desire at seeing Maria, both his wife and this woman, so different from the one he knew, flaring inside him. She overcomes her surprise quickly, the resounding slap ringing in the empty house. He steps back, his own surprise mirrored in her eyes. It is not all that is in her gaze – he sees anger and disbelieve and something akin to hatred – as it rakes over him.

“Do not.” Her voice breaks and she shakes her head vehemently, a touch of violence. “You may not. Do not dare.” She hurries to the door and swings it wide. He watches her, watches the shaking in her hands. “Go. Get out.”

“Maria.”

“He has no body, no grave, no stone. Nothing to mark his life or his death. You have no right to take more from him, to make me less to him. You have given your news. Now go.”

Hornblower nods, moving toward the door. Now that his task is done, he feels both lighter and heavier at once. Maria seems smaller, diminished by Bush’s death. “I am sorry for your loss.” He curves his hand around the door latch. “You will notify us when the child is born?”

“Perhaps months later.” She laughs with no amusement, with bitterness lacing her words. “When I find it convenient to do so. When it fits in with _my_ plans.” She blinks back a fresh wave of tears and shakes her head. “I always…I always thought you loved me. Not as I did you, I was not that foolish, but after a fashion. I knew you found me foolish and ignorant and not good enough, but I thought you…I thought perhaps you respect me for what I was. I see now that you never loved me, and I apologize for the difficulty you must have had, coming home to me each time.”

“Maria…”

“But he did love me.” She glances around the room and then back at him. “Caudebec, you said?”

“Yes. Caudebec-en-Caux.”

“Then the baby and I will go there. There is nothing for us here, and at least he is there.” She nods to him, no trace of her pain visible now. “You can arrange for someone to show me where he died?”

“Yes.”

“Then this will be the last thing I ever ask of you, Horatio.” Her voice hitches on his name. “Take me to William.”  



End file.
